Howling for You
by Stille Nacht
Summary: Why won't Jackson's wound stop bleeding, and why does Derek Hale suddenly care? All Jackson knows is he just wants things to go back to normal, like before McCall made first string.
1. Still Bleeding

**Howling for You**

_Stille Nacht_

Disclaimer: If I owned Teen Wolf, I wouldn't have to troll out fanfiction about it. Harrumph!

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><p>Derek Hale waited in the shadows of Beacon Hill high school's locker room. Steam filled the room from the remaining running shower, and there were two florescent lights shorting out above him. This made it difficult for anyone to notice him, never mind the fact that he had natural, or supernatural, stealth. Waiting was never exciting, but he remained ever vigilant.<p>

His daily activities had dulled down to the repetitive task of constantly looking after Scott, for his and the pup's benefit, and scouring the wooded areas around the community for any trace of the alpha. Other than that, there wasn't much to his daily life, other than the occasional trip to a do-it-yourself store to work on one of the various trashed and scorched rooms of his old home. Why he even bothered, he wasn't quite sure; it wasn't like there was anyone coming home to the rubble but him. The long days of nothing made him grow bored and restless.

When the shower shut off, his senses perked up just slightly. His waiting was over.

Jackson stepped out of the shower stall and grabbed a fresh towel from the basket, wrapping it around his waist. He yawned lightly and stretched, noticing he was the only one left in the locker room. That suited him just fine. He was tired and didn't feel like dealing with any of his teammates, especially McCall. The guy's voice just grated on his nerves.

At his locker, Jackson pulled out his duffle bag. Inside were a change of clothes; he pulled on his boxers and a pair of dark wash jeans and pulled out a package of gauze. Jackson unwrapped a thick wad of gauze and tore it from the roll. Looking down at the tiled floor, he placed the gauze over the back of his neck and slipped some medical tape overtop to hold it in place. He tugged on a gray shirt and pulled on a jacket to cover up the bandaged area.

Less than a week ago, Jackson had received a deep wound from the town recluse, Derek Hale. He shuddered lightly at the thought. The guy's fingernails, more like claws, had sliced right into him, and he'd been bleeding ever since. Jackson grimaced. He had figured it would just heal after a few days, or at least the blood flow would lessen. In the end, he had decided he would give it a little while longer before getting it checked out. In all honesty, he really didn't want to have to deal with all of the questions. How did he get it? Where was he? Who was he with? Blah, blah, blah, more crap questions, blah. Most of them would come from his super caring, adoptive parents. That was a route he would rather not take.

He plopped down on the bench and pulled on his Chucks. Jackson remained there for a good minute or two. He closed his eyes and let his head sink against his chest. God, was he tired. Ever since he had gotten scratched, he had been afraid to sleep, afraid something, or someone, would crash through his window and attack him.

In the split second that Jackson let himself rest upon the bench, he quickly found himself facedown on the locker room floor. Someone's foot was shoved against his back, and he wasn't sure if he should be frightened or in agony as his jacket was ripped at the collar to reveal his bandaged wound.

"You really shouldn't cover it up," came a familiar voice. Jackson struggled to turn his head to look at his captor and immediately wished he had done otherwise. None other than Derek Hale stood looming over him. "Covering it up will only slow the healing process."

"Get off of me," Jackson spat at him. His voice came out harsh, like he could do something about his predicament.

"You're scared," Derek noted, peering down at Jackson.

"Get. Off. Me." Jackson glared up at him with a pointed gaze.

Derek ripped the bandage from the teenager's neck and stepped off of him. Jackson flipped over and scrambled backward, trying to get as far away from Derek as the row of lockers and bench would allow him. Walking away, Derek smirked to himself. He stopped at the end of the lockers and turned back to look at Jackson almost cowering in the corner, a very faint trail of blood wandering into the collar of his gray shirt. What Jackson didn't know wouldn't hurt him, at least not while Derek was around. Without another word, Derek left the building.

Jackson stayed where he was for a few moments longer, not sure whether or not the man was still there. He had watched him walk away, but his footfalls were completely silent. Eventually Jackson sat up and leaned against the lockers and sighed, placing his head in his hands. Two questions came to him: what the hell had just happened? And had Derek been there the whole time he was getting dressed?

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><p>Wow, it's been a long time since I've written anything on here! It's good to be back.<p>

I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this, but I do have a vague idea. I would have pumped more out, but I really need some sleep.


	2. A OK

Howling For You

_Stille Nacht_

Disclaimer: Hey, uh, MTV, I'm borrowing your characters. Hope you don't mind.

Just saying; I'm totally not following the storyline/timeframe of the TV show.

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><p>By the time Jackson had gotten home, blood had soaked into the better part of his shirt collar. Derek's words rang in his ears: <em>covering it up will only slow the healing process<em>. So what was he supposed to do, go to school and practice and bleed out everywhere else he went? That seemed so likely to happen.

Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he pulled off his torn jacket. He would have to get rid of it now, since Derek shredded the back of it. As irritated as he was about his jacket, he was more concerned about the gouges in his neck. Tossing the jacket to the tiled floor, he scowled at his reflection. There were bags and dark circles under his green eyes; his skin was paler than normal. He looked sick; he looked like a zombie, especially with the fresh blood on his shirt. He sighed in frustration, and his shirt joined his jacket in the floor. He winced when the fabric dragged across his bare neck. This crap, whatever it was, was going to be a pain in the ass. He just knew it.

Jackson turned on the tap and started cleaning himself up. "Bleeding this much for this long can_not_ be okay," he muttered to himself. Sure, leaving it unbandaged might make him heal faster, but how long would that take? Surely it wouldn't be healed up by the end of the school year, which was right around the corner. He just had to get through exam week and one more lacrosse game. Then he would be in the clear. So, despite Derek's super creepy attack in the locker room today, Jackson decided he would bandage his neck up until next Friday.

_I must admit,_

_I can't explain_

_Any of these thoughts racing_

_Through my brain._

_It's true;_

_Baby, I'm howlin' for you._

It took a moment for the tired athlete to recognize the song playing was actually his cell phone going off. He grabbed a dark colored towel and started wiping away the water and blood from his shoulder. He grabbed his phone and slid the unlock key over to answer. It was Lydia, of course.

"Hello?" he inquired.

"_Hey, baby. Why do you sound so sullen?"_

"I'm fine," he responded, "what's up?"

"_Well, I was thinking that we could meet up with Scott and Allison tonight at the movies. Ya know, like a double date."_

Jackson frowned into the phone. Lydia knew how he felt about getting dragged into the same plans as McCall. She knew how much the guy irritated him, yet she always insisted that they all hung out together, like they were some terrific TV sitcom clique. He held back a sigh and made an effort to sound at least content. "Sure, sounds great. What time should I pick you up?"

"_The movie starts at nine. So I was thinking you could get here by seven-thirty. That way we can swing by Allison's house to pick her and Scott up, and we'll have just enough time to get there and hit the snack bar."_

Of course. Of course he would be picking them up too. Fucking perfect. "Sure, babe, no problem."

Jackson had been meaning to break it off with Lydia for a while. It was no secret they were having problems, especially since McCall made first string. Lydia had gotten more moody with him, and she had been a hell of a lot more bossy. She acted like if he wasn't the superstar of the team, he wasn't as important to her, unless, of course, she wanted something. Whether it was a date, dinner, a way to hang out with her friend, or sex, well, that just depended on the day. Needless to say, it was wearing Jackson out. He was getting tired of it.

It also didn't help that she kept asking about the gashes in his neck. He kept skirting around the issue, saying he was fine and that it was fine and that it was no big deal. Just to get on her nerves one day, he had told her it was a tattoo of a mountain lion. She had gotten huffy and refused to talk to him the rest of the day, which, no surprise, was fine by him. Jackson wasn't sure why he kept putting up with Lydia. On a couple of occasions he figured he would be lonely without her, but he tossed that idea as soon as it formed. In actuality his life would be more comfortable without her. Easier, definitely. He held himself to the highest standards, so much so that his adoptive parents and teachers worried about him; he didn't need her breathing down his neck too.

Thinking on it again, he figured it was probably because of Allison. She was one of the nicest people he knew. Jackson wasn't interested in her romantically, but Allison had turned out to be his best friend about halfway through the school year when she noticed his relationship problems. Allison always listened to him when it came to his disagreements with Lydia. Stiles wasn't too bad, either, come to think about it; he just hung around McCall too much in his opinion.

Jackson sighed. This was going to be a tiring night. He needed to squeeze a nap in if he had to deal with people later. He flopped on to his bed with his towel and buried his face into his pillow.

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><p>WOAH. TWO UPDATES IN A ROW. HOLYCRAP.<p> 


	3. Double Date

Howling for You

_Stille Nacht_

Disclaimer: MTV, I can has for my birthday? :'D

Happy birthday to me!

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><p>Jackson had the urge to smash his phone against a wall when the alarm went off, alerting him that he had about thirty minutes to get ready. Groggily, he sat up and grabbed his towel. He was shocked he had actually slept until his alarm, which was only two hours. Two hours was a solid record for him these last few days. At night he didn't want to sleep, and, when he did, he usually was nervous and restless about the fact that he could be attacked at any given moment. Then he vaguely remembered his mother knocking on his door around dinner time. He guessed he didn't sleep for as long as he'd though after all.<p>

He shuffled to his bathroom and plucked a roll of gauze from the medicine cabinet, along with medical tape. He had decided to keep stock in his duffle bag and his bathroom, just in case. He used the towel and water to wipe up the fresh mess on his chest and shoulders before bandaging back up. Hopefully Derek wouldn't burst through the wall or a nearby window and knock him to the ground for a second time that day.

Taking a deep breath, Jackson grabbed a pair of black jeans and a red button up shirt from his closet. He tugged the clean clothes on and stuffed his bloodstained shirt from earlier into his clothes hamper. He frowned for a moment. If he left the shirt in the hamper, his mother was sure to find it when she did laundry. She would ask questions, like Lydia. He took the shirt from the hamper and stuffed it under his bed. It would be fine there for now. It wasn't like he was six and his mother checked under the bed to see if he'd cleaned there or not.

Jackson returned to his bathroom and splashed water on his face, trying to wake up just a bit more before heading downstairs.

He took the steps two at a time and headed into the kitchen. His parents had already had dinner, but his father was sitting at the table with the newspaper.

"Where are you headed off to?" he asked, as Jackson grabbed a generic sports drink from the refrigerator.

"I'm going to pick up Lydia. We're going to the movies with Allison and Scott," he responded quickly.

"I thought you weren't feeling well? That's what you told your mother when she came up to get you for dinner."

"Did I? I was taking a nap. I must've just been tired. Anyway, I'm fine. I'll grab something to eat while I'm out."

Seeming satisfied with that response, Jackson's father nodded and smiled, returning to his paper. "Have fun, then. Don't stay out too late." The typical parent answer. Good, the quicker he left the house, the quicker he could come back.

Jackson pulled into Lydia's driveway, right on time. She was already waiting on her front porch with her lips pursed, as if he should have been early. Ignoring it, he got out of the car and opened the passenger door for her. She wiped the irritated look off of her face and gave him a peck on the lips.

"Why, thank you," she said happily, "I suppose chivalry isn't dead."

No, chivalry wasn't dead, but sometimes chivalry made Jackson want to bash his own face in.

Because they all seemed to live in the same neighborhood, it was a short drive to Allison's house. Her father waved her and Scott off with an annoyed look on his face. It wasn't a secret that he didn't trust Scott as far as he could shoot him; he just hadn't managed to find a real way to incriminate the kid yet.

The movie theater wasn't empty, but it wasn't packed either. Lydia had managed to talk Allison into getting McCall to agree to some chick flick or another. No surprise there. All Allison had to do was promise to let McCall see her in her bra to get him to do anything. The other couple sat a seat away from Lydia and Jackson; that way they could all be together, yet have their own small piece of privacy. Jackson couldn't care less. The movie was boring, and he was starting to fall asleep again anyway.

Jackson jerked up in his seat as a sharp pain went into his side. He looked over to see Lydia glaring at him heatedly. Apparently she had elbowed him in the ribs. How nice.

"Look, I get it if you're bored," she whispered irritably, "but you could at least act like you care."

"Lydia," he whispered back, "I'm _tired. _You know I haven't been sleeping."

"Yeah, well, I'm tired. Tired of you being so out of it all the time. You aren't the star player anymore, you know. You must have down time somewhere in that busy schedule of yours." There she went again.

"Can this wait until we at least get out of the theater?" Jackson sighed and let his head rest in his hand. They had gathered a few unfriendly onlookers in their brief spat.

"Whatever. Just make sure you don't start snoring," Lydia retorted, slumping in to her seat in a huff.

Jackson rolled his eyes and tried to look anywhere other that at Lydia or the screen. McCall had glanced over at them with a wincing expression on his face before looking away, while Allison looked at him apologetically. He half smiled at her and spent the rest of the movie in silence, zoning out.

Eventually his thoughts led him back to his encounter with Derek; again he found himself pondering just how much the guy had seen when he was getting dressed. He felt his face heat up slightly and pushed the thought out of his mind. Who cared how much he saw? It wasn't like Jackson didn't get dressed in front of a bunch of dudes after practice everyday anyway.

"What a stupid ending." Allison's voice jarred him from his thoughts before he realized that the lights were coming back on in the theater.

"I thought it was cute," remarked Lydia.

McCall shrugged. "It was okay." Looking at Allison, he grinned. "It was a couple of hours I got to spend with you without your dad creeping in the same room, so I'm happy."

Lydia smiled at them. "Scott, you're so sweet!" She looked pointedly at Jackson. "Allison's so lucky."

Allison looked away momentarily and replied, "Thanks, Lydia. Anyway, I think we ought to get going. It's after eleven, and I don't want my dad asking a million questions."

"Yeah, that's not a bad idea," Jackson said, "How about I drop you and McCall off first?"

They nodded in agreement and exited the theater together. It was a good twenty minute drive back to their neighborhood, so when they got back to the car, Jackson made sure to play loud music to avoid conversation.

He waved at Allison and McCall as they parted from the car and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as they started off, Lydia started in on him.

"I really just don't get you these days, Jackson. Where's your head at? I mean, come on, you only have one game left, and you're just barely first string these days. What do you have to be tired about? You don't have problems with your grades, so I know you aren't staying up late to study," Lydia threw at him and continued, as if she'd never run out of air, "You get everything handed to you, and you act like such an ass about everything. You hate going out with our friends, and you're really not helping me keep up with our social status-"

"Lydia!" Jackson cut her off in a hoarse shout. She just stared at him, taken aback. "Lydia," he repeated, "I can't do this. You're constantly hounding me about one bullshit thing after another. I give you everything you ask for, and it's never good enough for you, all because McCall is better than me at a damn sport. I don't care anymore. I just. I just don't care."

"What are you saying?" Lydia asked quietly.

He glanced at her as he drove down her street. "I'm saying we're done, Lydia. You know, I may not have been the best boyfriend lately, but I just can't deal with the constant way you keep tearing me down. I'm breaking up with you."

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><p>And the chapters keep getting longer and longer! :'D<br>I'm really proud of myself for keeping up with this.


	4. All Your Fault

**Howling for You**

_Stille Nacht_

Disclaimer: Why do you think I never use brand names in my stories?

Points to whoever can figure out what song the beginning of this chapter is inspired from.

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><p>Around one in the morning, Jackson found himself sitting back against a tree in the local cemetery. For some reason or another, he had parked himself next to a mausoleum. He couldn't quite remember why he'd done it now, though. He took a swig of the bottle in his hands; the burning feeling in his esophagus had stopped a good twenty minutes ago. Jackson wasn't secretly an alcoholic, and he didn't drink often. When he did, it was in moderation. That was the only way to keep you from doing something ignorant at a high school party with all the other jocks and their bright red party cups.<p>

"Lydia," he murmured to himself with a sigh before letting the bottle go and watching it roll to his feet. He scowled at it, knowing he would hurt in the morning. He supposed, in his drunken state, that he had loved Lydia in a way. Back when he was first string, she had seemed like she really loved him. It was crazy, but he could have pictured a future with her in it. Maybe that's why he ended up in the goddamn cemetery with a bottle of rum. He shrugged and leaned into his tree.

Then a rogue thought struck him. Jackson reached for his phone. It wasn't there. He checked all four of his pockets, finding nothing. He scrunched his face up. It wouldn't be in his car, mostly because he had walked to the cemetery. In his right mind, he had known he was going to drink; naturally, he dismissed the idea of taking his car. "Terrible idea," he muttered.

Then Jackson made a face again as he remembered who it was he was going to call. Derek Hale, that bastard. Somehow, he wasn't quite sure how exactly, but somehow, all of this bullshit was his fault. He had wanted to call Derek and yell at him, but, for what, he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was angry with him, and he thought Derek should know. Because it mattered. Somehow. Maybe Derek was some kind of crazy serial killer or super villain, and he had attacked him because he was just a really big douche. Or maybe he was a mountain lion. That's what had been attacking people all school year anyway, right? Derek had some kind of claws. Mountain lions had claws. And teeth. They had teeth. Pointy teeth. Jackson pictured Derek with pointy teeth and nodded. He could see it.

"Yep," he agreed with himself. This was all Derek's fault. Even Lydia being a total bitch. That was his fault too.

Jackson stood up slowly, his head swimming as he moved. He pulled out the only thing in his pocket: a permanent marker. He wondered vaguely why he even had it in his pocket. Shrugging, he moved to graffiti tag the wall of the mausoleum. He was going to write: DEREK HALE IS A REALLY BIG DOUCHE. Because that was what seemed fitting at the moment. He wrote it on his arm first, to see how it would look and was satisfied. Taking a stride toward the small building, Jackson stepped on something and felt his feet go out from under him. His mind alerted that he had stepped on the liquor bottle before his head cracked on something hard, probably the ground, and he blacked out.

The grounds keeper stumbled across a teenage boy passed out in his cemetery. He sighed. "Why can't these dumbass kids drink under the bleachers like they did in my day?" He shook his head and looked at the writing on the kid's arm. Derek Hale. He had that number. The kid must have been some friend of his or something.

Jackson groaned loudly, but it was muffled by a fluffy pillow. Without opening his eyes, he frowned into the pillow. When had he come home? Feeling it was of no consequence, he buried his aching head deeper into the pillow and attempted to go back to sleep. Somehow he had managed to make it home in his drunken stupor. Kudos to him.

"Get up," someone told him. Was that his father? He was probably upset that Jackson had taken his rum. He continued to play dead.

"I know you're awake." Derek Hale. The voice belonged to Derek Hale. "If you don't get up, I'll have to knock you to the ground again."

With reluctance, Jackson slowly sat up, immediately regretting it. He felt nauseas as he squinted over at a shirtless Derek. He supposed he wasn't home after all, and he also supposed it was too much to ask him to put on a shirt. "Where am I?" he asked slowly. What else was he supposed to say? Good morning. What's for breakfast, dear? He paused at his own thought. Dear? He must still be a little drunk to be wanting to call a guy, especially this one, dear.

"My house. The grounds keeper found you by my family's mausoleum," he offered.

"Oh," was all Jackson could really come up with. What the hell had he been doing there?

"You had the nicest phrase written on your arm. In fact, I think it's still there." Derek's voice was lined with sarcasm as he spoke.

Jackson looked down at his arm. DEREK HALE IS A REALLY BIG DOUCHE. "Oh," he repeated. Jackson could feel his face heating up. Oh. That probably wasn't good.

"So the groundskeeper called me, since he figured you knew me," he continued. He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe of the room.

Jackson was extremely uncomfortable with the fact that he was in Derek Hale's house and that Derek now had a reason to knock him on his ass. He felt the need to stretch, but he also felt the desire to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

Suddenly a thought popped into his head. This house was still pretty torn up. Derek couldn't have his room and a guest room set up yet. Sure, he had been in town for a few months now, but he doubted a guest room would be on his list of priorities as far as the rest of the house went. "I didn't think you would have a spare bed in the house," he commented carefully.

"I don't," came the quick reply. Jackson visibly paled, wanting nothing more than to leave as soon as possible. Derek kept his poker face. He paused as he exited the room. "I slept on the couch." Jackson could have sworn he heard a chuckle as the man left and Jackson's heart dropped in relief.

His face screwed up for a moment. No one he knew had ever seen Derek so much as smile.

Jackson eventually followed Derek downstairs, and, much to his surprise, much of the burnt down house had been repaired with skill. The staircase had all of its stairs; the living room actually looked like part of a normal home, with carpet and fresh paint, including some not so new furniture.

"Expecting charred walls and trashed rooms?" Derek's voice made Jackson practically jump out of his skin. He had been so engrossed in his amazement with the house's progress that he hadn't heard Derek come up beside him.

"Well, yeah, kind of," Jackson admitted. Derek was technically the town outcast and was also kind of creepy in a sullen, dark, and handsome kind of way. Jackson shook his head, clearing his thoughts. His mind was turning on him. How much had he had to drink last night? "Sorry, " he muttered, pretending that he had been shaking his head at him previous statement. "I guess everyone has to live comfortably."

Derek raised a dark eyebrow at Jackson and nodded. "By the way," he said, "you owe me new sheets. You bled all over mine."

Jackson frowned. "What?" Instinctively he reached a hand up to the back of his neck, which came back sticky and red. "Damn it, man. Why do you have to keep doing that?" he growled out, scowling at Derek.

"You have to stop covering it up," came the response. Derek had a mixed expression of concern and irritation written on his face.

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Jackson argued, "That still doesn't explain why! If anything, you owe me an explanation! You're the one that did this!"

Derek was silent and just stared at Jackson, not saying another word. Jackson fumed silently and moved for the door when he realized that Derek wasn't going to say anything further. Slamming the door with one last glance back, Jackson started walking home.

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><p>Hahahaha, DERPdrunkJackson. I had so much fun writing that.

I think I generally came up with an idea as to where I'm going with this, so I'm pretty pleased with myself. I would also like to apologize for the update for taking so long; I've been out of town and super busy.

Thoughts? C:


	5. Sneaking In

**Howling for You**

_Stille Nacht_

Disclaimer: All I own is the ability to fabricate things.

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><p>Jackson knew it was a long walk home, considering Derek lived on the outskirts of town, but he refused to care. He also refused to care that it started to rain about five minutes into his trek, his hair beginning to flatten to his head, his shirt clinging to him like it might melt into him. At least the blood would wash off the back of his neck.<p>

When he had accused Derek of being at fault to his face, bits and pieces of the previous night came trickling back. He vaguely remembered writing on his arm; what really stood out was the thought that everything bad that had happened since McCall made first string had been Derek Hale's fault. Jackson's nostrils flared as he exhaled a deep, fuming breath. He had spent the better part of the school year trying to figure out what the deal with McCall was, and he still couldn't figure it out. All he knew was that something similar was going on with Derek. At least now that he was done with Lydia, he would have a little more free time to focus on that. After all, Jackson was still pretty jealous that McCall was suddenly so much better than him and had been all year.

After a good hour's walk, Jackson finally made it to his doorstep. His clothes were soaked through, but the rain had almost stopped. His eyes flicked to his parents' cars in the driveway. Neither of them worked on the weekends, so they were generally at home every Saturday and Sunday. Jackson knew he didn't want to try to explain any of his current state to them. They were so loving and overly caring that they might have simultaneous heart attacks, seeing him like this. Quickly and quietly, Jackson moved off of his front porch and bounded around the back of his house. His room was on the second floor, and he never kept his window locked. Now that he thought about it, though, he probably should, reasons being all things considered Derek Hale. Looking into the kitchen windows, he noted that his parents weren't downstairs. The house was dark, which meant it still had to be early morning. Still, he wanted to avoid sneaking in through his front door; the door itself was heavy and could never be closed quietly. It was sure to wake his parents up if he entered the house through the main entrance.

Attaching the toes of his Chucks to the trellis on the back of his house, Jackson started to carefully scale the wall. He had three windows: one on the front of the house, one on the side, and another on the back. It would have been much easier to scale the front of his house, since his porch had an overhang, but he didn't want to chance having the neighbors seeing him. One elderly neighbor in particular was the nosiest woman Jackson had ever met, and she was constantly calling his parents if she spotted something she thought looked suspicious or out of the ordinary. She kind of reminded him of Gladys Kravitz from the old black and white reruns of Bewitched.

Making his way to the top of the trellis, which was just shy of his window, Jackson shifted uncomfortably. He had never had the best relationship with heights, and he definitely was not enjoying them now. Resisting the urge to look down at his backyard, Jackson started to push at his window without letting his balance falter. It was a difficult task, but he managed it with only a slight swaying. When he regained stability, he let out the slightest breath of relief. Pushing his window all the way open, he started to climb through to his warm bedroom. Thank god, he had left the blinds and curtains open. Just as he was almost through, part of his shirt caught on the outside of the window sill. Luckily it didn't pull him back outside; however, it did cause him to lose balance and land harshly into his bedroom floor with an extremely audible thump.

"Jackson?" his father called, "Jackson, what are you doing in there?" His voice was somewhat hushed, but it was right at his bedroom door. "Open up."

Jackson swore under his breath as he scrambled for something to cover his wet clothes. Reaching his bathrobe, he wrapped himself in it and tied the belt tightly. He opened the door to see his father's tired face. "Morning," he said, feigning grogginess.

"What are you doing up so early?" his father asked, looking at him just a bit strangely.

"Nothing, Dad. Just took my shower," came the easy reply, "Felt like starting my day early. You know, hitting the books." He smiled casually, as if it were any other morning.

"At five in the morning?" his father asked incredulously, seeming rather skeptical.

Oh. Jackson hadn't thought about looking at his clock before coming up with an excuse. "Yeah, you know me. I like to stay ahead of the game." His father yawned and nodded, seeming to accept the excuse. Then Jackson watched his father's eyes trail down toward the floor. He followed the gaze, which landed right at his Chucks. Oh, again.

Frowning, his father looked back up at him. "So I suppose you've already gone for your morning run as well." Jackson struggled to find a new excuse, but his father beat him to the punch. "We'll talk about this over breakfast, when your mother wakes up." Damn. Jackson looked at his father and nodded his head in a noncommittal sort of way. Without another word, his father turned and headed back to their master bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Standing in his doorway, feeling idiotic, Jackson let out a long sigh. Today was going to be a long day, and Sunday wasn't going to be any better. While his parents were always more than accommodating and loving, bordering on , if not overly spoiling, they did not take kindly to his acting out. They weren't used to him sneaking out or getting bad grades or being anything but a polite star athlete. They didn't like confrontation with him because he was such a great kid in an almost unhealthy way. He mentally braced himself for the dragged out talking session to come.

Rocking back on his feet just a little, Jackson remembered what time it was. He shivered lightly, remembering his wet clothes. He tossed his robe on to his bed and started to peel off his wet clothes and shoes, letting them scatter across his bedroom floor as he made his way to his shower. As tired as he was, he wasn't ready to go to bed while he was freezing cold. Climbing into the hot spray of his shower, Jackson let it wash over his body. Slowly the shivering stopped, and he relaxed against the cool tile of the shower wall, eyes closed. He could feel the hot water sting the raw flesh of the claw marks, and it brought his mind back to Derek Hale.

Why did it matter to Derek whether or not his neck healed up quickly, with or without a bandage over it? Sure, he had inflicted the wound, but was it really any of his business how Jackson treated it? Was it really any of the guy's business picking him up from a cemetery in the middle of the night? Was it really any of Derek's business creeping in the shadows of an almost empty locker room? And was it really any of his business going around without a goddamn shirt on? According to Jackson, the first question could be answered as a definite no. So could the second. The third question was a little iffy, since the caretaker had called him. The last two questions Jackson had asked himself, however, made him frown. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, as if he had been making a speech in his head to an invisible audience.

"Why does my head keep going in that direction?" he muttered to himself. Trying his best to push the thoughts aside, he finished his shower and turned off the water. Grabbing the first towel off the rack, he wrapped himself up and wiped away the cloudiness from his mirror. He was greeted by dark circles and bags underneath his bloodshot eyes. He frowned at himself and then couldn't help deepening his frown as his mind was flooded with questions concerning Derek again. Practically storming out of his bathroom, Jackson dried off and pulled on a pair of his boxers to climb in bed. If he had to think about Derek, he at least wouldn't be doing it consciously, that was for damn sure.

For once in the last week, Jackson didn't find much trouble in getting to sleep right away. Too bad it would be short lived once his mother came knocking for breakfast.

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><p>So, guys, glad to be back again! Sorry, I know it's been forever! I promise I didn't let this ship sink! Check my profile's Q&amp;A for an explanation. Thank you to the followers who have stuck with this story. And the song that inspired the last chapter was My Chemical Romance's Cemetery Drive. :3<p> 


	6. Doctor, Doctor

**Howling for You**

_Stille Nacht_

Disclaimer: Do you think MTV would let me rent the characters…?

So I'd like to say sorry for the filler chapter; I needed it to continue building small plot points. Annnnd. I needed to write it to figure out where I was with the story after these last few months. So thank you all for bearing with me on that!

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><p>Struggling to pull himself from his short lived sleep, Jackson trudged toward his bathroom sink to splash cold water on to his face and rebandage his wound. Forgetting to do so earlier, he had bled on to his pillow and comforter. He stifled a yawn as he dried off his face and tossed the towel in the hamper, gathering his still damp clothes up from earlier that morning. He glanced at his clock on the nightstand. Nine in the morning. Jackson shuffled to his closet and got dressed for the day. Shivering slightly, he grabbed a hoodie to pull on over his t-shirt.<p>

"Why is it so cold in here?" he wondered aloud, pulling the ends of his sleeves over his fingertips. Attempting to take in a deep breath of air through his nose, Jackson discovered he was slightly congested. "Awesome." So Jackson was still lightly bleeding, had barely any sleep, managed to get a hangover, and was now stuffy. A cold was just what he needed to top things off; although, in the back of his mind, it registered that he could have possibly avoided trekking through the rain. Had he simply been patient with Derek and remained at the other's house a while longer, he might not have caught a cold at all.

Jackson scowled at himself as he made his way downstairs, where he could only barely smell frying sausage and scrambled eggs. He tried to push thoughts of Derek out of his mind as he sat down quietly at the kitchen table, plate and utensils already laid out, like usual. Not two minutes into him being in the room was food gently set down in the center of the table. His mother heaped a large helping of eggs on to his plate, along with a couple of sausages.

"Good morning, Jackson," she said, not quite smiling, but not scowling either, "How was your grand night out?"

Rubbing his temples, Jackson looked up at his mother wearily. He wasn't sure if the question was rhetorical or if he should actually answer her. He picked the better of two evils. "Pretty terrible, actually," he replied. Jackson figured he should at least give her an answer; that way it wouldn't be misconstrued as ignoring her.

"So, then, tell us," she continued, "Why weren't you home last night?" His father sat down to the table silently, not bothering to interfere in the interrogation. "Why is it that you were getting into the house at five in the morning, soaking wet?"

Jackson paused for a moment, hoping that the delay looked like fatigue, not him searching for an excuse. "I broke up with Lydia," he finally let out. Realizing that his mother was silent, he continued, "We'd been having a lot of problems the last few months, and I was really upset last night. I'd been talking to Stiles about it, and he told me to come over. I fell asleep at his house and walked home when I woke up this morning. I ended up getting caught in the rain, and now I think I'm catching a cold." Jackson blurted out the last sentence somewhat weakly, almost seeming out of breath. He felt dizzy, and his vision started to swim a little.

Watching his mother's expression change from irritation to concern gave Jackson just the slightest relief. "Oh, honey! Why didn't you say something about it to your dad this morning?"

"Obviously because he's a boy, dear," Jackson's father interrupted. "I wouldn't want to spill my guts like that to my dad at his age." Looking directly at Jackson, he went on, "Your granddad would have told me to suck it up and move on. He wasn't much for being touchy-feely." His father sipped his coffee and plucked the newspaper off the table.

"Jackson, honey, are you alright?" Jackson wasn't sure if he was visibly swaying, but he sure felt it in his head. He was starting to feel sick to his stomach.

"I don't think so," came the slow reply. This didn't feel like an ordinary cold, and he wanted to call bullshit on it being an everyday, run of the mill, hangover. Visibly paling, Jackson leaned over in his chair and vomited on the kitchen floor.

"Jackson!" his mother cried, flocking to his side, stroking his slowly dampening hair. She looked to his father. "He's burning up! Call the doctor!"

His father was on his feet in seconds, dialing the family's primary care physician. It was a weekend, and the doctor's office would be closed. He instead dialed the doctor's cell. After a few moments of silence and Jackson trembling in his mother's arms, his father began speaking into the phone. "Doctor Tennant, it's John Whittemore. Do you think you would be able to make a house call? Yes, it's Jackson. I'm not sure. . . . Yes, he's throwing up . . . Shaking." He looked at Jackson's mother. "Mary," he said urgently, "hot or cold sweat? Does he feel like he's got a fever?"

"Cold. Yes to the fever," she responded quickly.

His father relayed the information to the doctor and passed on a few other symptoms before hanging up the phone. "He says he can get here by noon. Mary, why don't you take him upstairs and help him back to bed?"

Jackson tried to pull himself out of the chair as his mother helped him up. He felt another wave of nausea wash over him but managed to push it back down. He let out a groan as he started shuffling toward the stairs, his mother ferrying him along. When they managed to get to his room and he was safely tucked into his bed, his mother put a trashcan next to him, just in case, along with a glass of cold water. "Try and get some fluids, if you can," she told him.

Nodding slowly, Jackson thanked her and laid back, hoping the room would stop spinning before too long. He leaned over the edge of his bed, face near his trashcan, thinking he was going to lose his insides again. Jackson laid that way for a while, breathing quite heavily. Once he was sure he could, he laid back and covered his face with his hand, sighing into it. Did he have the flu? And if he did, then how the hell did it crop up this quickly?

_I must admit,_

_I can't explain_

_Any of these thoughts racing_

_Through my brain._

_It's true;_

_Baby, I'm how-_

Jackson grabbed his phone from his bedside table and palmed at it weakly until it accepted the call, not bothering to look at the contact information. "Hello?"

"_Oh my god, you sound awful! What's the matter?" _Fuck, it was Lydia. What did she want?

"Why are you calling me, Lydia?" Jackson managed to choke out.

"_What, I can't see how you're doing? After your mental blip in the car last night, I had to make sure we were okay," _she replied, almost sounding concerned. Almost.

"Okay? Okay? Lydia, we aren't okay. We aren't even together anymore. I told you we were done. We're not dating. We're not friends." Jackson paused his verbal slap in the face so that he could let out a small cough.

"_Are you sick?" _Lydia asked, as if she didn't get the picture.

"Yes, Lydia. Sick of hearing your voice." Jackson hit the end button on his screen and tossed the phone somewhere into his mass of blankets.

After hanging up with her, Jackson's mind circled around the idea that his being sick was possibly Lydia's fault. If she hadn't been a complete bitch, he might not have broken up with her. If he hadn't broken up with her, he might not have gotten trashed. If he hadn't gotten trashed, he wouldn't have woken up at Derek's house, where he wouldn't have gotten frustrated and walked out into the rain. He sighed lightly, starting to cough again. He leaned over and used his trashcan, silently thanking his mother for placing it there.

Maybe he needed to take a step back. Maybe nothing was Derek's fault. Maybe nothing was Lydia's fault, for the most part. Maybe the issues he was having were more to do with him than with them. It could have been that blaming them was just easier than owning up to the fact that he could have dealt with things differently. If he hadn't egged Derek on, he might not have gotten clawed or gashed or whatever to begin with. If he had talked things out with Lydia, she might not have been such a bitch about everything. But, he concluded, as he laid back once more, what was done was done.

_Running. Running. Running. _

_Crack! Fssssh! _

_What was that rustling in the woods? Who was there?_

_Sharp, bright blue eyes. _

_Fangs, pointed and jagged, like a monster._

_Snarls and growls and anger._

_Mournful howling; full moon, bright in the night sky._

_So much blood, covering him, covering everything._

_Where was he?_

_Blue eyes narrowed on him and pounced._

Jackson's eyes snapped open, sucking in a deep breath, and began coughing almost instantly. He sat up too quickly, feeling the dizziness coming back, blurring the edges of his vision. Reaching around his bedside table, he grasped the water and drank slowly. It was lukewarm, so, he concluded, he must have fallen asleep for a bit.

A knock on his bedroom door startled him slightly. "I'm awake," he called out.

"Good!" his doctor replied, as he opened the door and stepped in. "How are you feeling today?"

"Not so hot, Doctor."

"Funny, you don't normally get sick. Have you kept up with your daily vitamins? You always come in for your routine check up, and it's in my files that you've had all your shots, including influenza," the doctor mentioned, "So tell me your symptoms."

"Well," Jackson started, "there's a lot of vertigo, and I'm throwing up. Coughing, too. On and off cold sweats and fever. Congestion." He pointedly decided not to mention the bizarre dream he had just had. It was probably a delusion of the fever anyway. At least he hoped so. He also didn't think to mention the gash in the back of his neck that was trickling blood, and the doctor didn't notice it. It was, of course, covered by gauze and his shirt.

Doctor Tennant searched through his medical bag and pulled out various instruments. He checked Jackson's blood pressure, checked his ears, eyes, nose, and throat with his microscopic light, and listened to his heartbeat. "Hmm, curious," he murmured.

"What is?" Jackson asked.

"Your blood pressure is running low, but your heartbeat is much higher than normal. That's strange indeed. I'm not sure what to make of this just yet. I'm going to prescribe you with an antibiotic, lots of fluids, and bed rest for now. We're going to treat this like influenza for now. I'll check in on you again in a couple of days to see how you're doing. If you don't seem to be getting any better, I'll take some blood and have it sent off to test," the doctor concluded.

"Oh," Jackson stated, "okay." What else could he say? He felt miserable, and there wasn't much he could do about it. He accepted the sample pack of antibiotics the doctor handed to him and followed the instructions he was given. "Three a day, as if I were taking them with every meal. Got it. Thanks, Doctor. See you in a couple of days."

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><p>Okay, so I didn't get as far in the plot as I wanted for this chapter, but more should be coming soon! Also, was it wrong to shamelessly cameo David Tennant as the tenth Doctor here? Hahaha. I wanted to point out John and Mary too. I couldn't find actual names for Jackson's parents, so I kind of stole John and Mary Winchester's names from Supernatural.<p> 


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